


Dance With the Devil

by Cassiopeias_Sky



Series: Fire and Fury [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alcohol Abuse, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety, Cheating, Depression, Emotional Abuse, Firefighter!Bucky, Friends to Lovers, Implied Sexual Content, Physical Abuse, Possible Character Death, Songfic, Verbal Abuse, alright guys, mmmm i love me some firefighter!bucky, pay attention to the warnings!, physical assault, rape by coercion (scene is not graphic or smut), spousal abuse, this is a damn train wreck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 20:29:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14838650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cassiopeias_Sky/pseuds/Cassiopeias_Sky
Summary: This is a songfic to Breaking Benjamin’s Dance with the Devil. This is really just angst with a side of angst.You've been married to your alcoholic husband for 5 years.  The only thing that's really gotten you through it is your stubbornness and your best friend and kinda sorta boss, Bucky.  When your husband's casual emotional abuse transitions into something more sinister, you're forced to make a difficult choice.  The thing is...it might already be too late.





	Dance With the Devil

**Author's Note:**

> Um, I had a bad day and this happened. As they’d say on OITNB, Red’s in a mood. This was originally written as a one-shot, but then people asked for more and my muse decided to show up, so now I have an unexpected trilogy on my hands.
> 
> This fic deals with some very dark themes. Please read the tags to make sure there aren't any triggers.
> 
> Song lyrics are in bold.

**Here I stand, helpless and left for dead**

_Your POV_

You’ve got that feeling again.  It chased you all day at work; everyone at the fire station knew there was something up, but Bucky is the only one that really knows.  

You know that tonight isn’t going to be good, but you also know there’s nothing you can do about it. Jack managed to string together 3 weeks of sobriety – and to be fair, you’re proud of him for that because it’s as long as he’s managed since before you two got married – but your intuition is screaming that it ends tonight.

It always does.

Just as you pull into the parking lot of your apartment building, your phone rings.

_Here we go._

“Hey babe!” Jack’s overly cheerful voice rings in your ear.  The greeting used to make your heart leap, but now it makes your heart sink.

The empty pit in your stomach turns to lead as you remind yourself there’s nothing you can do; you can’t control it.  It isn’t your fault and it never was, regardless what he wants you to believe.

“Hey hon, you on your way home?” Your own false bravado echoes in your ears.  It’s part of the dance, this question, he expects it.  He needs the opening to craft his lie.

“No, I’m sorry babe but Simon had to go home because one of his kids is sick.  We’re shorthanded in the restaurant tonight, and with the football game in town we need all hands on deck.”

It occurs to you to tell him that he told you just two days ago that Simon is on vacation this week with his family in Florida, but you don’t bother.  It won’t change anything, it’ll just make him mad.  Besides, from the sound of his voice he’s already started drinking.  So instead you reply with, “Okay.  So will you be home after the mid-shift ends?”  Another springboard for another lie.

“No, babe, I’m so sorry. Simon was the closing kitchen manager tonight.”

Simon never closes. And he’s a sous chef, not a KM. “Alright then, just be safe, okay?” You swallow against your tears, making sure he can’t hear them in your voice.  He’s going to get a solid 8 hours of drinking in, at _least_ , before he gets home tonight.

“Why do you sound worried? I’m just at work, nothing’s gonna happen.”

**Close your eyes, so many days go by**

**Easy to find what's wrong**

**Harder to find what's right**

An hour later finds you sitting on the floor of your dimly lit, shithole apartment living room.  It’s a shithole because it’s all you can afford with what’s left over after he buys his booze, and it’s dark because it’s a garden level apartment with windows that face north, so the only time you get any actual direct sunlight is when the sun reflects off the windows of the apartments across from you.  All in all, the apartment is depressing as hell.  You rub your gritty eyes, but don’t bother to turn on a light.  In front of you are dozens of photos, taken across the 6 years you’ve been with Jack.  You’d been planning to pick out a few to enlarge so you’d have something on the walls; it’s supposed to be a surprise for him for your fifth wedding anniversary tomorrow.  Sifting listlessly through the photos, you pick one of the two of you slow dancing on your wedding night.  It’s hard to recognize yourself in this picture, because you’re so happy in it.

 _What the hell happened?_ How _did this happen?_

When did ‘no one else ever love you the way I love you’ turn into ‘no one else will ever love you?’

This picture gets set aside – maybe you’ll choose this one.  There’s the picture of the two of you at a wedding a few months before your own, and a smile comes to your face.

When did ‘I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you become ‘I can’t stand you?’

Things used to be good. _Really_ good.  Jack treated you like you were a princess and you looked at him like he could save the world. Of course, most of that was technically a lie, but you didn’t know it at the time.

_Ignorance is bliss._

He’d hidden his alcoholism with an ease that still astonishes you.  You’d had no idea whatsoever until about 2 weeks before your wedding date – although hiding it was probably fairly easy before you moved in together, especially since he’s such a highly functioning alcoholic.  His work schedule accommodated his lies flawlessly, and besides, you didn’t really want to see through them.  You _loved_ him.  So damn much. You’d also believed you could beat this demon together.

 _So many lies_ , _so many empty apologies that you held onto for dear life._

Another picture catches your eye.  This one was taken at his dad’s surprise birthday party.  You and Jack look so in love; you can’t really recognize either of you in this photo.  You pick it anyway.  Hanging it on the wall might remind you of your reasons for staying – God knows you need the reminder, because it’s getting harder and harder to remember. Of course, it’s not like you have anywhere else to go.  And staying with him is better than being alone, because by now you’re so damaged that no one else will want you.  Right? Besides, you spoke vows.  You _promised._ You’re his wife, you’re supposed to love him through this.

You don’t remember what love feels like anymore.

Glancing at the clock tells you that you need to get to the store if you want the pictures tonight. Your stomach grumbles, but you ignore it because you haven’t got an appetite.  You grab the first and third pictures and your purse and head out the door.

* * * 

“Okay ma’am, the pictures will be ready in an hour and a half – we’ll send a text message when they’re finished.  I won’t charge you the one-hour processing rate since we’re so behind.”  The clerk smiles at you kindly before looking again at your pictures.  “These are so lovely, I’ll be sure to be extra careful with them.”

A fake smile finds its way to your lips.  “Thank you.” It fades as you turn and exit the store.

You walk with your head down, lost in empty thoughts, until someone yells to catch your attention.  “Hey!  Work-wife!!” His unexpected voice is a balm to your damaged soul, and a real smile makes an appearance as you look up to see the familiar six and a half foot tall, dark-haired man jogging to you from across the parking lot.  Somehow Bucky makes it look graceful, even though you feel like a man of his height should resemble a dizzy giraffe.

“Work-husband,” you smirk as your best friend slows to a stop in front of you.  It’s true – at work, you’re the yin to his yang and you wouldn’t have it any other way.  He’s the station’s assistant fire chief and lead paramedic working to save lives, and you’re the administrative assistant behind the scenes that keeps everything running so he can do his job effectively.  

Your mom tells you at least once a month that it’s a complete shame you met Bucky 6 months too late. You know you should disagree, but settle instead for telling her (again) how Bucky is just a really, really  good friend.  Nothing more, nothing less.

“How’s my best girl doing?” Bucky flashes that bright smile that he saves just for you.  

You know what he’s really asking, because he _knows_ – he’d responded to a call almost five years ago when Jack got a little unruly at the bar one night, and patched your husband up and drove him home so your secret would be safe from the rest of the fire department.  Bucky knows how embarrassed you are about it, and he does what he can to protect you.  You didn’t bother hiding it from him after that – although truth be told you probably would have told him eventually anyway.  He’s the only one you feel safe enough to open up to these days.  

You shrug.  “As well as can be expected, I guess.”  You don’t lie.  Not to Bucky.

Bucky’s smile falters. “I’m so sorry, Angel.”  

As it almost always does, a smile appears at his nickname for you.  You started your job about six months after you’d met Jack, and within two weeks of starting, everyone in the department was calling you their saving grace. The position had been unfilled for almost 10 weeks before you started and had been held by an incompetent boob before that.  As it so happens, you are a goddamn rockstar at what you do, which earned you the nickname Angel from Bucky and Boss from everyone else, including the fire chief, Steve.

No one but Bucky knows that this job has been _your_ saving grace.

“Don’t be, Buck, it isn’t your fault.”  You leave it unsaid that it does help that he cares – he already knows that, though.

“I…I know.  But I’m still sorry,” he whispers.  There’s no pity in his eyes, just sorrow.

You know he wants to say more, but he rarely does.  Unlike everyone else in your life, he doesn’t tell you that you’re an idiot for staying or try to give you advice on how to keep your husband sober; he just supports you when you need it.  Which is…often.

“Hey, let’s go grab a bite to eat.  My treat – I owe you for saving my ass over that city council meeting I missed last week.” His eyes light up with a hopeful smile, “Then we can go see that new movie we’ve been talking about!”

You’re supposed to see that movie tomorrow as part of your anniversary date with Jack, but you already know that’s not going to happen; his lie started early enough that you know he’ll be too hung over tomorrow to see a movie in a theatre.  It makes him motion sick.  He’ll still be mad if you see it without him, though.

“Buck…I probably shouldn’t.” He hides it well but you glimpse his disappointment.  “I’d love to, I really would, but Jack’s been accusing me of cheating again.”  You never have, ever, but Jack’s insecurity increases significantly when he drinks heavily or during his temporary periods of sobriety.  And, you suspect, when _he_ cheats, although you haven’t been able to prove it.  Another thing Bucky is very well aware of.  “Besides,” you nod down to the pager clipped to his belt, “you’re on call this weekend, you goof.  You know damn well we’d get halfway through the movie and you’d get called out.”

‘”I…well, yeah, you make a good point.  That’s already happened, what…”

“Six times,” you finish for him.

“Yeah, six times.  I _still_ haven’t seen the end of the new Star Wars movie.”  He watches you for a minute before speaking again.  “But how about dinner?”

Your stomach chooses that moment to audibly growl, and you find that talking with him has restored your appetite somewhat.  “You know what?  Yeah, I’d like that.”

* * *

Comfortably full, you find yourself wandering the aisles of the store with Bucky as you wait for your pictures.

“Hey, this is a pretty frame.  How about this, Angel?” Bucky holds up a beautiful frame made of faded distressed wood. “It fits in with your décor.”

“Yeah, it really does,” you murmur as you take the frame from him to inspect it closer.

“It’d look really nice above that short bookshelf, the one by the door where you keep the bowl for your keys.”

You think about it for a moment.  “That’s actually a really good idea.”

“Well yeah, Angel, that’s kinda what I’m known for.”  

He manages to keep a straight face until you roll your eyes.  “So humble, too.”

“Well of course.  And don’t forget heartbreakingly handsome.” He doesn’t really mean it when he says this, but he should, because he _is._

You roll your eyes again as you laugh.  “Like you’d let anyone forget _that_. Geez, Barnes, you really need to quit stating the obvious.”

A blush creeps up his neck but he shoots you a smile that you know has just a hint of gratitude in it. You often go out of your way to complement him as a way to build up some of the confidence he lost at a fire call three years ago - he managed to save the life of the elderly man living above the bakery that caught fire, but suffered severe burns on his left arm as well as parts of his chest, back, and neck.  His girlfriend left him, claiming that she couldn’t bear to look at his ‘damage,’ as she so delicately put it.  You were there to pick up the pieces every day during his recovery, even staying overnight a few times when the home nurses cancelled on him without scheduling someone else.  The tattoos now partially sleeving his arm were your idea, something you’d come up with over the course of a particularly brutal night of pain for him.

Jack hadn’t missed you – he was in the middle of such a binge that you didn’t actually manage to have an intelligible conversation with him for almost a month because he was either working or drunk.  Or both at the same time, no one at the restaurant ever seemed to notice or care so long as his work was done, which it always was.  To give credit where credit is due, Jack is a brilliant chef and kitchen manager.

“You said you needed two frames, right Angel?”

“Yeah.”  A buzzing goes off in your purse – there was a time when you would have hoped it was your husband, but you know better now.  Now you only feel relief at seeing another number. On nights like this, no news is good news.  “Oh, the pictures are ready.”

He grabs a second frame, identical to the one he’d shown you, before you walk back to the photo department.  “So…” Bucky drawls out as you walk, “would you mind helping me pick out my next tattoo? I’ll help you hang your pictures as a tradeoff.”

You know what he’s doing – you just helped him pick out a design a few days ago, and he doesn’t have that appointment until next week.  “Buck, thank you, but it isn’t your job to keep me from being lonely.” It comes out with a sad smile.  “I know you don’t need a new tattoo yet.”

Bucky wrinkles his nose when he realizes he’s busted.  “Angel,” he sighs, “you’re my best friend.  I can see that you’re still sad.  You don’t have to be sad alone.”

He has a point.  “Okay, Buck.”

* * *

Having Bucky over turned out to be a great idea.  He’d helped you hang your pictures, as promised, but not before he made a big deal about telling you how beautiful you looked in them.  Then you both sat on the couch with your laptop, balanced carefully on your right and his left thigh as you scrolled through ideas for tattoos. Bucky kept your sadness away until he was paged shortly after midnight.

“Gotta go, Angel, duty calls.”  Bucky stands, but not before pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head.  “Get some sleep.  I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?  Call me if you need anything before then.”

You nod as he leaves, rushing off to save another life, another home, another livelihood.  If he can be so brave as to return to firefighting after he’d been so viciously burned, surely you can manage to navigate Jack’s alcohol abuse.  Right?

 

**I believe in you, I can show you that**

**I can see right through all your empty lies**

**I won't stay long, in this world so wrong**

You’re lying awake in bed and it’s just after 2 am when Jack finally comes home.  Part of you is surprised that he didn’t go to a friend’s house to continue drinking, but the other part of you is greatly relieved. All of you his hoping he’s happy drunk, and that you’ll be able to get him into bed without any problems or arguments. 

There’s a crash – he’s run into the dining room table.  Again. You get up to help him when the string of profanities begins.

“Goddammit, I told ‘er not to leave the chair out like that.”  Jack stumbles again, grabbing onto the table for support.  “Fuckin’ hell.  I tell’er every fuckin’ day.”

“Hon,” you begin in a pacifying tone as you walk to him, “I’m sorry.”  It _had_ been tucked away, but now isn’t the time to argue the point.  It’s pretty clear that he’s ugly drunk, and you just want to get this over with.

_When did this become your life?_

Jack finally looks up, smiling when he recognizes you.  “Baby. Guess what today is, Baby?”  He stumbles over to you, throwing an arm over your shoulder; you can’t help but turn away from his putrid stench; the food he’d cooked that day, alcohol, cigarettes, and the hint of perfume you choose to ignore.

Oh god, is that whiskey on his breath?  He’s so much worse with whiskey… 

“Happy anniversary, Baby. We made it.  Five years, Baby.”

“Happy anniversary, hon,” you reply as you try to dodge his sloppy kiss.  You just can’t handle kissing him when he’s ugly drunk.

“’M sorry I had to work so late, then me n’ the guys stopped for a beer.  But I jus’ had two or three.”

Two or three?  Maybe when he’d called you after work, but this? Given how he’s slurring some of his words, you’re guessing that tonight’s bar tab is at least a hundred dollars.

“C’mon, Baby, kiss me.” It’s less of a request this time. You don’t want to start anything because you’re so tired and it’s so late, so just you do as he says.

“Hey, take a peek at the walls, hon,” you say quickly as you pull away; maybe you can distract him. “I had some pictures enlarged.”  

He gives them just the tiniest glance before asking, “What did ya make for dinner?  ‘M hungry.”

“Oh, I just grabbed something while I was waiting for the pictures.”  You leave out the part that you ate with Bucky – you know damn well that you didn’t do anything wrong, but Jack isn’t necessarily rational when he’s drunk.  And drunk Jack _hates_ Bucky.

He looks at you with those brown eyes that you used to love so much.  “Baby, would you make me a fried egg sandwich?”

You just want to go to _sleep_ , but that’s not what you say.  “Of course, hon.”

Jack sits at the table as you busy yourself in the kitchen.  Then he starts to cry.  “I love ya so much, you know that, right?  I’m such a piece of shit, but I love ya.”

“I know you do,” you murmur with a small, sad smile.  “I love you, too.”  And you do, at least a little.  Maybe. Deep down you know he’s sick, that this isn’t his fault.  It doesn’t make it any easier, though.

**Say goodbye, as we dance with the devil tonight**

**Don't you dare look at him in the eye**

**As we dance with the devil tonight**

He eats, finally, and you bring him into the bedroom in hopes that he’ll go to sleep quickly.  So far, so good.  It’s now after three, and you’ve been up for almost 24 hours.

Jack walks over to his side of the bed while you crawl into your, but he doesn’t get in.  He just stares.

“What’s wrong, hon?”

_Please just get in and go to sleep, please please please…_

“Who the fuck are you fucking?”

The venom in his words takes you by surprise, but they shouldn’t.  Hello, whiskey, sucks to see you again.  So much for hoping you wouldn’t rear your ugly head tonight.

“What are you talking about, Jack?”  It’s hard to keep the annoyance out of your voice, but you just want to go to _sleep,_ so you do.

“My covers, they’re all fucked up.  Who the fuck are you cheating on me with?”

“What?  Jack, I’m NOT cheating on you!  The covers are sloppy because I left for work before you got up today, and you didn’t make the bed.”  You can’t believe this is happening.  Again.

He’s quiet for a moment as he watches you with eyes filled with something that looks suspiciously like hate; you have to remind yourself that this isn’t Jack, this is his disease. This is the whiskey.

You’re so tired of having to remind yourself.

“You’re fucking that Bucky guy.”

Here we go.

You summon your patience once more.  “No, Jack. I’m not cheating on you with Bucky. I’m not cheating on you with _anyone._  I love you, I wouldn’t do that to you.”

He’s not listening though. “You fucking whore.  I fucking _knew_ it!”

No words come to you; he’s left you completely speechless.  Jack swears at you, but never calls you names…

Jack stumbles out of the bedroom – you remain on the edge of the bed.  Maybe you’ll get lucky, and he’ll pass out on the couch.

_No such luck._

The sound of shattering glass makes you run into the dining room.  

“Fucking BITCH.  Puts this shit on my walls, think I don’t know she’s fucking someone else.”  It’s quiet for a moment, and you pray the worst is over but of course it’s not. His fist slams into the second picture, sending glass flying across the room as you jump back.  “What, r’you afraid or something?”

Staring at him with wide eyes, you don’t know what to say.  For the first time, yes, you are little afraid of him.  He’s come home drunk more times than you can count, and he’s come home after being in drunken fights, but he’d never raised a hand to you or anything in your home.  Until tonight.

You want to cry.  You want to run away.  You want to call Bucky.

You can’t do any of those.

“Pick up this mess,” he mutters as he makes his way back into the bedroom, running into the walls as he does so.

With shaking hands, you do as your husband says.  You tell yourself it’s because you don’t want to get hurt in the morning by forgetting there’s broken glass on the floor, but really it’s because you don’t want to be in the same room as him.  

Luckily most of the glass broke into large pieces, so it doesn’t take long to clean up.  Still not wanting to go into the bedroom, you instead go the couch, curling up to make yourself as small as possible.  Once you hear him begin to snore, you can allow yourself to cry.  But not until then.  Jack _hates_ when you cry.

The snores don’t come, but his clumsy footsteps do.

“Baby, m’ sorry.  Come to bed with me.”

You just want this over with.  You just want _sleep._

“Okay,” you agree quietly, and make your way into the bedroom.

You settle yourself as best you can, and listen for him to do the same.  He doesn’t.

“Baby, make love to me.”

Ice flows through your veins – sex is the _last_ thing on your mind right now.  “Hon, I’m really tired.  Can this wait till morning?”

_Please?  Oh god, please just leave me alone…_

“You don’t really love me. You love _Bucky._ ”  The accusation doesn’t even surprise you anymore.

“Jack…”

“If you loved me, you’d wanna have sex with me.  Tha’s what good wives do.”

_If he were sober, you could probably convince yourself…_

The man you vowed to spend the rest of your life loving and cherishing sits up in bed.  “Look, if you don’ have sex with me, I wanna divorce.”

“Jack…”  This is going too far.  This is going way too far.  You…you can’t do this.

The man that vowed to spend the rest of his life loving and cherishing you stares at you in the dim light, and doesn’t slur his next words as he reaches over and roughly begins to grope your breasts.  “I want you to make love to me.  Now. Or I want a divorce.”

You should have walked out. You should have cut your losses, and walked out.  

But you didn’t.

You weren’t ready for a divorce, for feeling like a failure, like you didn’t do _everything_ possible to save your marriage.  You know people will blame you, after all, he’s the ‘fun’ one.

So you do as he says. 

It’s not over quickly, of course.  He has whiskey dick, which he blames on you.  Because you’re so _goddamn boring in bad_ and _can’t you fucking do anything right?_

Something inside your soul breaks, and this time, you know it’s permanent.

You pull your hair from its ponytail and allow it to fall in your face to hide your tears.  You let him mistake your quiet sobs for gasps. You hate yourself and how defiled and cheap you feel, all in the name of saving a marriage that has never once saved you.

When it’s over, when it’s _finally_ over and Jack is finally passed out, you cry yourself to sleep.

**Trembling, crawling across my skin**

**Feeling your cold dead eyes**

**Stealing the life of mine**

_Bucky’s POV_

Bucky wakes with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.  He knows it’s her, that something’s wrong with his Angel.  A quick glance at the clock tells him it’s just after 9 am – she should be up by now.  She’d mentioned that her bastard of a husband was working the opening shift at the restaurant today so he could have the night off to take her on a date to celebrate their anniversary, so calling her shouldn’t be an issue.

Not that there should even _be_ a goddamn issue, for Christ’s sake, neither of them have ever done anything inappropriate around the other. She loves her husband, the undeserving prick, and Bucky loves her, but he’s not about to do anything to compromise her trust in him or their friendship.  Despite wanting more, being best friends is enough. 

So he calls.  But she doesn’t answer.

He waits a few minutes, and then texts her.  He takes a shower, brushes his teeth, and feeds his cat.  Still no answer.

Another call.  No response.

Unable to handle the uneasy feeling any longer, he grabs his keys and heads over to her apartment.

**I believe in you, I can show you that**

**I can see right through all your empty lies**

**I won't last long, in this world so wrong**

Bucky sees that Jack’s car is in the restaurant parking lot as he drives by, and when he gets to her apartment he pulls his motorcycle in next to her car.

He can’t exactly explain why, but his unease is turning into panic.

Bucky takes the stairs leading down to her level two at a time, trying to find her key on his keychain as he moves – the key she’d given to him as a backup after the last time she’d locked herself out of her apartment and wasn’t able to get a hold of Jack or he apartment manager.

He knocks on her door, but she doesn’t answer.  Bucky only hesitates for a moment before letting himself in, and his heart skips a beat when he sees the broken picture frames still hanging on the walls.

_If that fucker laid a hand on her…_

He calls out her name. Still nothing.  His training kicks in, and he begins to systematically sweep the rooms – not that there are many in her tiny apartment.  Bucky finds her in her bedroom, staring at the wall.

He approaches slowly, making sure he’s in her line of sight before kneeling and gently taking hold of her hand that currently has a death grip around the blanket surrounding her.

“Angel?  Are you okay?”

She blinks slowly, and shifts her eyes to him.  He’s never seen her eyes look so glassy, so empty.

“Hi, Bucky.”

If he hadn’t been right in front of her, he wouldn’t have known it was her speaking because her voice is unrecognizable.

“Hey, hey,” he soothes, unsure of what, exactly, he’s soothing, but knowing that she’s not alright. “What’s going on, Angel?  Why didn’t you take my calls?  I was worried about you.”

And she lies – for the first time since he found out about Jack’s drinking, she lies.

“I’m sorry, Buck.  I guess I forgot to turn my phone off silent.”

He wouldn’t ordinarily challenge her on something like this, but he’s scared.  More scared than he was when he thought he’d lose his arm.  So he picks up her phone from the nightstand, enters her code, and checks all her settings.

“Angel…sweetheart, why are you lying to me?  I’m your best friend, you’re safe with me, I promise,” he murmurs as he pushes some of her hair back.  He’s not angry or indignant – just scared.

Her eyes fill with tears, and when he gently lifts her from her bed and into his lap as he sits in the floor, she begins to sob.

She tells him everything.

**Say goodbye, as we dance with the devil tonight**

**Don't you dare look at him in the eye**

**As we dance with the devil tonight**

Your POV

You’re not sure how long you’ve been in Bucky’s shower, but the water went cold a few minutes ago.  

You still don’t feel clean, but at least you feel safe.  When Bucky gently suggested staying with him at his place until you got things sorted out, you didn’t hesitate.  You got dressed while he packed a small overnight bag for you, and then hopped on the back of his motorcycle without a single backwards glance.

Five years’ worth of subtle then increasingly brutal emotional abuse, gaslighting, and manipulation. And now rape.

As Bucky held you as you sobbed on your bedroom floor, you finally, _finally_ allowed yourself to admit what you’d been intentionally ignoring for years.

Now it’s time to do something about it.

You step out of the shower and dress – you can hear Bucky in the kitchen, so you know he hasn’t been called away.  That’s good. You don’t want to be alone right now.

“I want a divorce,” you announce as you walk into his kitchen and take a seat at the center island. 

“Fuckin’ finally,” he mutters under his breath – you know you weren’t meant to hear it, but his emotion makes him louder than he means to be.  “Alright, Angel,” _these_ are the words you’re supposed to hear, “I’ve got a lawyer that can come to the firehouse on Monday morning to work with you.  Do you want me to give him a call?”

He hands you a plate of pancakes and bacon as you nod.  “Yes, please.”

The sheer relief on his face makes you realize how bad your situation had really become, and it chokes you up as tears come yet again.  “Why did I do this, Buck?  Why the fuck did I stay and put up with his shit for so long?”

Bucky circles the counter and pulls you into a tight hug.  “Because you _loved_ him, Angel.  Whether or not he deserved it, you loved him.  And you believed in the best in him, and you wanted him to get better.”  Bucky softly strokes your damp hair as he holds you.  “You didn’t do anything wrong, sweetheart.”

You nod from the safety of his chest.  “Except, Buck, I don’t think I’ve loved him for a long time.”

He pulls away, cradling your face gently in his hands.  “That doesn’t mean you were ready to give up on him, Angel.  You were dedicated to your marriage, and that dedication meant that you weren’t gonna quit easily.  That’s…that _not_ a bad quality.  It’s part of what makes you, you.”  Bucky pauses momentarily to gently wipe the tears from your eyes.  “I’d say you stayed in the ring ten rounds too long, but it wasn’t up to me.   _You_ had to be ready to make the decision on _your_ terms.   _You_ had to be ready to leave.”

Nodding slightly, you murmur, “I’m ready now.”

Bucky pulls you in for another tight hug, and you can hear the relief in his voice, “Good.”

He goes to press a kiss on your forehead but you look up at the same time, and the corner of his mouth meets yours.  For the first time in longer than you can remember, you don’t feel repulsed by the feeling of someone’s lips against yours.  Bucky remains motionless, but instinct overrules thought when you shift so your mouth fully meets his.

It’s a kiss that’s over 5 years in the making. 

When he kisses you back, it’s sweet.  Soft. Tender.  Things you’d forgotten even existed.  As his hands gently hold your face, something in your shattered heart starts to knit itself back together.

“Angel,” he breathes when the kiss breaks, “I’m sorry, but I can’t say I’m sorry about that.”

“I wouldn’t want you to,” you murmur as he presses your forehead to yours.  “I’m not, either.”  A few moments pass, and for once everything feels right instead of wrong and you’re so at peace that the words come out before you think.  “Bucky, will you help me to forget last night?”

He pulls back, looking both surprised and conflicted.  “Angel, are you sure about that?”

“Yes…I…unless you don’t want to…”  It suddenly occurs to you just what, exactly, you’ve asked of him – it isn’t necessarily as simple for him as it is for you.  And you might have just made a _terrible_ assumption.  “Shit, I just put you in a really bad spot, Buck, I’m so sorry.  Just, uh – just forget I -”

The entire time you speak, he’s shaking his head.  “Angel, no, you’ve got it all wrong.  I want to, hell, I’ve wanted to for 5 years, but you’ve gotta be sure.  I can handle a lot of things – I can handle staying your best friend, hell, I’ll be _honored_ to continue to be your best friend – but I cannot handle being your regret.”

You put your hands to his face, gently running your thumbs over his cheekbones.  “There are a lot of things I regret.  A _lot_.  But Buck, I could never regret you.”

**Hold on, hold on**

Warm.  Safe.  Cherished. Adored.

_Loved._

Feelings that haven’t made an appearance in your life for years are now all you can feel as your body remains entwined with Bucky’s.  

 _This_ is what lovemaking is supposed be like, not that other cheap counterfeit you’d accepted for years.

Bucky lightly strokes your back as your trace your fingers over his scruff; neither of you says anything. You don’t need to.

He sighs as you both hear the pager go off.  “Time to fly, hero,” you murmur before lightly kissing his smiling lips.  You both rise to dress.  “Do you mind dropping me off at, um,” what the fuck should you even call it?  It sure as hell isn’t home anymore.  “The apartment?”

He stops, all signs of peace gone from his eyes.  “You want to go back to the apartment?”

“I just want to grab a few things before Jack gets home.”  After last night, you don’t trust Jack.  At all.  

“Are you…”

“No, Buck, I’m not sticking around to talk to him.  I don’t want to see him in person, so I’m just going to call him later to tell him that I’m filing for divorce.”  You pause to bite your lip.  “Is that the chickenshit thing to do?”

“No, Angel, it’s the _smart_ thing to do.”  Bucky has never looked more serious.  “You sure you don’t want wait until later?”  He looks uneasy as he finishes dressing.

“Buck, you’ve got a fire call, and I just want to get this over with.  Jack won’t be home for another couple of hours, so I’ll get my important things packed and be back here before he gets off work.”

**Say goodbye, as we dance with the devil tonight**

Your skin crawls when you enter the apartment.  It occurs to you that you could just jump in your car and come back later, with Bucky, but you really, _really_ don’t want to deal with Jack.  Bucky hadn’t wanted to come, but you assured him that you’d be quick.  It’s not like you have much that you want to save – all the memories of your years in hell can stay right here.

Heaven is waiting for you on the other side of town.

An hour later you’ve got your clothes, makeup, shoes, and laptop loaded into your car.  You go to the bottom drawer of your nightstand to pull out your sensitive documents – you need your birth certificate, car title, insurance information, and a few other documents and you can be on your way.

**Don't you dare look at him in the eye**

“Surprise, Babe!  ‘M home early for our date!”

 _Fuck_.

Your hands still.  You need to get out of here.   _Now._

“Babe?  Where – oh, there you are.”  Jack walks into the bedroom with a dozen red roses in a crystal vase.  How is it possible that he doesn’t know by now that you _hate_ red roses?  “Look, Baby, I’m really sorry about last night.  I promise it won’t happen again – I’m done drinking for good this time.”

It takes everything in you to keep quiet.  You don’t want to start a fight, you don’t want to look at him – you just want _out_.

“Aren’t you gonna say something?”  

Memories of last night roll through your mind, and you want to vomit.  But you don’t, you just keep your mouth shut, gather your papers, rise, and move to walk past him.

“Hey, what the fuck is going on?”  Jack grabs your arm as you try to get by.

You can’t keep it in any longer.  “I’m done, Jack.  I’m filing for divorce.”

“Excuse me?”  His look of confusion would be comical if the situation was different.

“You heard me.”  You pull your arm out of his grasp and begin walking away.

“You’re fucking that Bucky guy.  I fucking knew it, you goddamn whore.”

It’s the same old accusation.  For the first time, you don’t refute him.  For the first time, it’s technically true.  You’re not sorry.

You reach for your keys, but before your hand reaches them your head is violently yanked back by your hair before he spins your around.  

The last think you know is a brief memory of Bucky before the heavy vase crashes over your head.

**As we dance with the devil tonight**

Bucky’s POV

“Well if that wasn’t about the _dumbest_ call we’ve ever been on,” Steve chuckles as he drives the team back to the station.

“Who does that?” Bucky laughs, “Who calls 911 because there’s a funny smell coming from their treadmill?”

“That woman, apparently. Did you see the oven mitt and tongs from when she unplugged it?”  Steve is laughing so hard he has tears running down his face, but he sobers immediately when the beep comes through the intercom.

Bucky presses the button for the radio.  “Go ahead, dispatch.”

“There’s a domestic dispute in progress, police are en route, first responders are requested as there is a confirmed injury, possible fatality.”

Bucky’s blood runs cold as Steve asks for the address. 

“Can…can you repeat the address, dispatch?”  He must have misheard.  Bucky _knows_ that address, that apartment number. 

Steve’s already turning the truck around.

**Hold on, hold on**

The truck isn’t even stopped and Bucky’s already out of it.  The police initially try to stop him until one of his team shouts their EMT status – they move right away, which is good because Bucky is fully prepared to go through them to get to her.

What he’s _not_ prepared for is the sight of his Angel lying on the floor in the hall outside the apartment, broken and bleeding.  

It takes everything he has in him to compartmentalize; he’s been trained for this, too.  He’d been warned about this day – the day he’d have to respond to a call only to find out it was a loved one.  They’d warned him, but he never thought it could really happen. Not with her, now when he finally had the potential to have his Angel.

Bucky forces himself to stay in control, shouting off her almost non-existent vitals to his crew when they come down with the stretcher.  

He doesn’t want to admit it, but this is beyond his skill set.  Way beyond it.

A fractured skull. Internal bleeding.  At least four broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder from when Jack apparently tried to pull her into the hall and up the stairs.  A possibly punctured lung.  God only knows what else in her abdominal cavity – Jack had clearly kicked her while she was down.

Bucky splints and braces her as best he can to avoid additional injuries before helping to get her on the stretcher.  She’s loaded into the ambulance that’s just arrived, and no one says anything when he jumps in. 

“Hold on, Angel, please hold on,” he murmurs as he begins hooking her up to the available monitors.

The paramedic next to Bucky shouts up to the driver, “We’re in!  Drive fast, Dave!” as he eyes her erratic cardiac rhythm.

“Get the AED ready.” Bucky’s voice is a lot steadier than his hands as he cuts open her shirt – one of his, actually, that he’d given her to wear after her shower this morning.

”Hold on hold on hold on,” he begs, over and over, seeing her come closer and closer to flatlining. They’re still a good 10 minutes away from the hospital.

**Goodbye**

The unsteady beep turns into a flat tone.

“NO!  No no no!  Hold on, Angel, please hold on!”  Bucky prepares the paddles as the other paramedic shouts for the driver to go faster.

“Clear!”  Bucky discharges the shock, and holds his breath.


End file.
